


oh brother, i will hear your call

by gingersprite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen - Freeform, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Sibling Bonding, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, not jonerys friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 13:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21209258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersprite/pseuds/gingersprite
Summary: Still reeling from the news about his parentage and unsure of his relationship with Daenerys, Jon seeks comfort from his siblings.





	oh brother, i will hear your call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [procellous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/gifts).

> For the lovely Synne, whose tumblr messages inspired this fic!
> 
> There's some minor references to the abuse Sansa and Theon suffer, but it isn't detailed. Additionally, this fic doesn't present jonerys in a positive light; this is partly due to the characters' own biases, and my personal feelings about the ship. I don't bash either character, but if this is a ship you feel strongly about then this probably isn't the fic for you (and that's okay! we're all here to have fun!)

The defeat of the Night King and his army may have marked a turning point for the Northern forces, but it was far from the end of the fighting. They had laid their dead to rest and celebrated their victory; now they had to plan. Thoughts of the coming battle for King’s Landing were on everyone’s minds, even as they tried to drown their fears in wine, chased with song.

Despite the festive atmosphere, Jon was struggling to shelve his feelings the way his comrades had and enjoy his supper. Apprehension sat heavy in his gut, making it impossible for him to eat or drink despite Tormund’s increasingly frantic attempts to get him to do so. He and the other leaders had spent the day drawing up battle plans- or rather, arguing with one another- and Jon was weary down to his bones.

Daenerys continued to insist on taking their armies South immediately, but Sansa blocked her every proposal in favor of rest and recuperation. Yohn Royce supported this, as did all of the major Northern lords. Though his wounds still kept him abed, Theon had made it clear that the Ironborn wouldn’t commit to a suicide mission; Daenerys had tried to brush him aside, pointing out that it was his sister who led them, but he just laughed.

(“We may have allied ourselves with you, but the Ironborn aren’t your subjects. Yara is my queen, and I am her emissary: and I am telling you now that she will not let our ships be fodder just because you’re impatient.”

It might have been more impressive had Theon actually been able to stand, or speak above a hoarse whisper, but he’d still rebuked the Mother of Dragons herself. Something hale and healthy men often lacked the strength to do.)

Jon had spent much of these meetings feeling rather useless. He had sworn an oath to Daenerys, one which he intended to uphold, but over the short course of their relationship he had become increasingly wary of her. Everyone knew she had a temper, fiery like her House words, and it was never more obvious than when she and Sansa verbally sparred. Jon had tried to play the peacekeeper between them, but as time went on it was clear that Sansa wouldn’t bend the knee.

And that was a major problem, not just for Daenerys’ campaign: Jon feared that if Sansa continued to antagonize her, she’d make good on her earlier threats. ‘Fire and blood.’

Her family’s words. _Their_ family’s words-

_\- ‘no, don’t think about that, don’t.’_

The great hall suddenly seemed to shrink in size as Jon fought to clear the treacherous thought from his mind. Beside him Tormund was still trying to get his attention, but his focus was locked on Daenerys. She was chatting amiably with Missandei, a welcome change from her earlier countenance; Jon knew he should have been pleased to see her smiling, but all he felt was relief. So long as she was happy and got what she wanted, everything would be fine.

Jon cast his gaze about the room, searching for his siblings. Sansa had slipped out sometime earlier, presumably to tend to Theon. Jon had assumed Arya was off enjoying some private time with her favorite blacksmith, until he spotted Gendry over with Ser Davos. As for Bran, his absence from this gathering was hardly shocking, though the part of Jon that remembered the sweet, smiling little brother he had been was worried.

The wrongness of the situation sunk in then, a Winterfell where the Starks were no longer welcome; but Jon supposed he’d only himself to blame for that. Wherever Daenerys went, she took up all of the air: it was impossible to breathe around her. Jon gave up on maintaining this farce any longer and clumsily got to his feet, shrugging off Tormund’s concerned hand, then left the hall. Hopefully Daenerys would be too distracted to follow him.

The empty corridor was startlingly quiet following the commotion inside the hall, and the change seemed to cause a ringing in his ears. Jon started wandering then, uncertain where to go. The occasional guard appeared as he passed through corridors, but none of them gave him any mind. If he went back to his room, surely that would be the first place she checked for him; the prospect of having to mask his true feelings to cater to Daenerys’ was just too much.

For all the strain that had existed between them as children, Sansa had become his main confidante. They had both grown up in the time they spent apart, faster than they should’ve had to; he barely recognized the leader his fanciful little sister had become. She’d always been clever- in an eager, smug sort of way- but now when she spoke there was a coldness to her, a sense that she was calculating his every possible move.

Daenerys had warned him that the abuse Sansa had suffered may have warped her into someone he couldn’t trust; as if Jon hadn’t seen her after her harried journey, hadn’t felt how thin she was or how she trembled in his embrace. But maybe Daenerys was right. Jon didn’t want to believe it, but now he couldn’t shake the seed of doubt she’d planted in his mind.

Even so, it was Sansa he found himself going to: hopefully she could help clear his addled mind, and provide him with some much-needed clarity. Maybe in doing so, he could get to her to back down, make her see how dangerous it was to keep antagonizing Daenerys. He was already the last of the Night’s Watch, he couldn’t be the last of the Starks.

Jon went to knock on the heavy door to Sansa’s room but paused, his hand hovering an inch from the wood. As the Lady of Winterfell she should have moved to her parents’ rooms, instead of remaining in her childhood bedroom, but Ramsay had soiled that place for both of them. Jon had no idea who’d been set up there now; he found he didn’t care, so long as no one had to think about the horrors that had gone on in there. 

Perhaps once this was all over, she could take up another suite, maybe Robb’s old rooms. Jon had been staying in them since they retook the castle, but he wouldn’t need them for much longer; he had to go where Daenerys went, keep her happy. For all that he’d felt unwelcome in Winterfell growing up, the idea of leaving it for King’s Landing sent dread racing through him.

The soft rap of his knuckles on the heavy wood rang out much louder than he’d intended, and immediately he felt guilty for bothering her; what if she’d decided to turn in early, and he’d woken her over his silly troubles?

“Yes?” Sansa’s voice rang out almost immediately; it seemed like she hadn’t been asleep after all.

“I… it’s Jon,” he announced himself rather lamely.

“Oh, do come in!”

The door eased open with a gentle push, and immediately Jon was hit with the strong scent of herbs, the sort of smell that usually hung about the maester’s rooms. A warm fire crackled away in the hearth- a welcome change from the chill of the corridors- and several lamps around the room cast a warm glow about the place. Sansa gave him a little smile from where she sat on her bed and waved him over. As he got closer, he realized she wasn’t alone: curled up under a mountain of blankets was Theon, his head resting on Sansa’s thighs. One hand carded through his curls, while the other held the small book she must have been reading.

Jon tried not to let his surprise at the sight show, but he doubted he succeeded. Sansa arched one delicate eyebrow at him in challenge; wisely, he said nothing.

“Is everything alright with our guests?” she asked primly.

“Aye, all’s well,” Jon said tersely. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Theon sharing a bed with his sister.

Her eyes narrowed. “Well then, not to sound unwelcoming, but why are you here?”

Realizing then how awkward this situation was- _Theon, in bed with Sansa, his little sister!_ \- Jon tried to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that he- that you’d…” he said in starts. “I just thought maybe I could talk with you?”

Sansa set aside her book and gestured that he take a seat at the foot of the bed; he settled down awkwardly, lest he disturb her guest, but Theon slept on, completely oblivious to his presence. A strange feeling rose up in him then, and it took him a moment to name it: envy. It had been so long since Jon had been able to sleep...

“I had him moved up here yesterday,” she explained. “It’s warmer here, and more protected; he’ll be able to rest better.”

“I didn’t mean-” Jon protested.

“It’s alright,” she said, shrugging. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret or anything, I just wanted to protect his privacy. Besides, I know how you feel about him.”

Jon bristled at her words. “I don’t feel any way about him.” That would have implied he thought about Theon at all, and he definitely didn’t: not about torn loyalties, or broken oaths, or failing the ones he loved.

“Don’t.” she said sharply. “I know how you think, everything in absolutes: you’re still so much like Father. But you have _no idea_ what he went through, what we went through together. You don’t have to approve, but don’t you dare judge me, not while you share your bed with _her_.”

“She- Dany has nothing to do with this,” he protested. “You shouldn’t speak about her that way, she’s our queen, and I-I love her.”

“That’s what I used to say about Joffrey,” she sneered. Jon would have liked to say that it was the anger in her eyes that made his blood run cold, but that wasn’t the cause; it was the fear that this comparison was true.

_‘No,’_ his inner voice insisted, an almost frantic edge to it. _‘I love her. She’s the queen, and she loves me, so I love her back. I have to.’_

“I didn’t come here to quarrel!” he exclaimed; the noise made Theon stir slightly, and Sansa shushed Jon furiously. She waited a moment, her fingers continuing their soothing strokes through Theon’s hair, until it was clear that Jon hadn’t woken him.

“Right,” she hissed, rounding back on Jon. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

“I don’t… I don’t know how to talk to you anymore,” he admitted miserably, sagging back against the bed post. “I didn’t even know about- this.”

A wry smile twisted her lips. “Then you must’ve been the only one in Winterfell who didn’t know,” Sansa said. “Even the Hound said something to me.”

“The _Hound?_”

“Yes, I know. He’s a foul man, but trust me, I’m met fouler.”

“What did he say to you?” Jon demanded, half-prepared to march back down to the great hall and confront the man himself for harassing her.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Oh, he wanted to know how I could square my ‘Stark honor’ with ‘Theon Turncloak.’”

“Sandor Clegane has no right to judge any man.”

“Of course not, but when has that ever stopped anyone? Then, he tried to have some sort of heart-to-heart with me. Called me ‘little bird’, like he knew anything about me. He and Joffrey, Littlefinger and Tyrion; they all thought they knew me, that I was so _easy_ to define.” Anger and frustration warred across her face before giving way to a profound sense of vulnerability, the likes of which he hadn’t seen from her since their reunion at Castle Black.

“Clearly they were wrong,” Jon said softly. “And perhaps I was too.”

“And they say miracles don’t happen,” she teased.

“Alright, I deserved that,” he laughed, willing to be the butt of the joke if it meant peace between them. “Thank the gods miracles seem to be in high supply these days.”

Sansa’s gaze was pulled then, from Jon’s face down to the man asleep in her lap. Theon’s previously lax face had become fraught as he tensed all the way down to his toes; his limbs jerked in horrible spasms, as if he was fighting off an unseen foe. His brow furrowed and he let out a pained little cry that might have been a frightened plea for mercy. 

Sansa caught one of his flailing hands and hugged it close to his body, then cupped his jaw with her other hand. Her thumb stroked his cheek, the touch impossibly gentle. She ducked her head down, murmuring gentle reassurances in his ear. 

“Shh, it’s alright, Theon, you’re safe,” she soothed. “I have you, Theon, we’re safe.”

At the sound of her voice, Theon’s tremors slowed, gradually coming to a stop. His breath evened out as he seemed to melt into Sansa’s lap. In the depths of his sleep, Theon gave a little sigh that Jon could only describe as ‘sweet’.

During this, Jon had sat paralyzed, unsure what to do, but Sansa hadn’t seemed fazed for even a moment. He stared at her, awed by this display of tenderness.

“You’re so sweet with him, despite everything you’ve been through,” Jon mused; Sansa’s eyes flicked up to meet his, but quickly returned to watching Theon’s expression for any sign of distress.

“Maester Wolkan has him taking milk of the poppy for the pain, but it brings on nightmares,” she explained. “I… I know what that’s like, to be haunted even in sleep. We both sleep better together.”

This was more than just a kindness between two weary souls, or a passing infatuation; he hadn’t seen Sansa this soft with anyone in ages. How had he ever let himself think her cold and unfeeling?

“You love him,” Jon said, realizing it even as the words left his mouth. 

Sansa froze, her fingertips still hovering over Theon’s cheek.

“I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’ve never felt this way about a man, the way I do him. It… it’s all very confusing, right now. But I know I’d do anything to protect him, keep him safe… see him smile.”

“That sounds an awful lot like love to me, or at least the beginnings of it.”

She huffed. “It’s terrifying.”

“He’s your first love; I think it’s supposed to be terrifying.” 

For all that Sansa had fantasized about courtly love as a girl, she hadn’t had much opportunity to experience it for herself. Though Jon still wasn’t thrilled about her choice in men _(really, of all people, Theon?)_ he resolved to be supportive; it was what Robb would have done. But then, Robb always did see the best in people, something he was much better than Jon at, as with most things.

Jon had scarcely allowed himself to mourn his brother as much as in that moment. Robb was the king the North deserved, the brother their siblings needed; he would’ve died before he knelt to a conqueror. Compared to him, Jon felt like a poor substitute.

“And… you felt that way about Daenerys, at first?” Sansa asked hesitantly.

Jon paused; he suspected they were heading back into dangerous waters, but it seemed too late to turn back. “She’s not- Dany isn’t the first woman I loved.”

“_Oh?_” she prodded when he failed to elaborate.

“Her name was Ygritte. She was one of the free folk I met beyond the Wall.”

Sansa must have understood what went unsaid- that Ygritte was dead- but, ever the lady, she didn’t ask how it happened. “Tell me about her. What was she like?”

“She was… fierce,” he started; Jon had expected to have difficulty describing the force of nature Ygritte had been, but instead the words flowed freely. “Passionate. Sharp, and witty- the crudest sense of humor I’d ever known a woman to have.” Sansa giggled at that, perhaps imagining the quiet and courteous boyhood-Jon shocked to hear a lady use foul language. “And, _gods_, was she beautiful! Her hair- it was red, like yours, but the free folk call it being ‘kissed by fire.’ Sometimes it was the only splash of color for miles around.”

It felt so easy to talk about her, to share some of the impact Ygritte had left on him. Even as he did, though, Jon was cognizant of how time had altered him memories. He had loved Ygritte with all his heart, and it wasn’t enough. What they’d had was built on a sandbar: unstable, at the whims of the elements. This thing he had now with Daenerys should have felt secure by comparison, but it didn’t. 

“She sounds like someone Arya would have gotten along with splendidly,” Sansa offered. Privately, Jon wasn’t so sure about that: he suspected they would have been more likely to argue just for the fun of it. 

But Jon kept that to himself, and merely shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“You seemed different just then, talking about her,” she mused. “Younger.”

“I _am_ young, we both are!” Jon said, voice thick with faux indignity.

“Yes, but you don’t usually look it. It’s the scowl.” Sansa teased, and for good measure she pulled an exaggerated pout; it had Jon laughing despite himself, though he was quick to stifle the sound with his fist. Sansa dropped the face and gave him an appreciative smile.

“Thank you for telling me about her,” she said gently.

“Thinking about her just now was nice,” Jon murmured. “I don’t mean to idealize it; we hurt each other, many times. But even so… she made me happy. And if Theon gives you that… that’s all I want, for you and Arya to be happy. Bran, too, in whatever way he can be now.”

They were too far apart for him to take her hand, so Jon settled for giving her socked ankle a warm squeeze; Sansa beamed at the gesture, and knocked her other foot against his knee.

“I’m not convinced Bran is as emotionless as he’d have us believe,” she said conspiratorially. “You didn’t see his face when Meera Reed arrived with her crannogmen.”

“_Really?_” Jon said, but Sansa only smirked and mimed buttoning her lips closed.

“You’ll have to ask him about that yourself!” she said in a lilting voice.

“A-ha!” he tutted at her. “You didn’t unbutton your lip first!” Sansa groaned at this throwback to their childhood antics, but obliged him this once. 

Jon settled back, pleased with himself; he expected Sansa to make another jape at his immaturity, but instead realized she was scrutinizing him. Where before there had been only mirth, there was now something solemn in her eyes.

“Jon,” she said tentatively. “You deserve to be happy too. You know that, right?”

Before he could answer, or even fully process what she’d just said, there came a sharp rapping at the door. They both startled, staring at the other with wide eyes. Jon had gotten halfway to his feet, when the mystery visitor opened the door and made themselves known.

“Arya?” he gasped. “What the hells are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same question!” she retorted, kicking the door open wide enough so she could maneuver Bran into the room. Jon moved to help her, but Arya seemed perfectly at ease helping their brother with his chair. Ghost lumbered in after them, his red eyes lighting up when he saw Jon. 

“We were just having a chat,” Sansa explained. “I thought you’d be busy with your smith?”

“He’s not _my_ smith,” Arya said defensively, her cheeks coloring. 

Bran rolled his eyes, the expression at odds with his usual placidity. “Keep protesting, I’m sure you’ll convince them.”

Jon swooped in before Arya could flick Bran’s ear, lifting his youngest sister as easily as when she was a tot. She hissed at him like an angry cat, but didn’t struggle; Jon thought that was rather nice of her, considering she could probably kill him before he even realized what she was doing.

“Play nice,” he teased, setting her just next to where he’d been sitting on the bed.

“What, are we cuddling now like when we were babes?” Arya said, even as she snatched up a spare blanket, ignoring Sansa’s cry of, “shoes off!”

Jon shrugged. “I suppose we are.” He turned to Bran and hesitated, the dilemma becoming obvious; Bran may have had to make do with being carried about as a boy, but the wheeled chair had given him a new sense of independence. Jon didn’t want to remind him of his limitations by plucking him up as he had Arya.

“Stop overthinking things and help me up,” Bran said wryly. 

“Sorry,” Jon grimaced, clearing his head with a shake before helping Bran unwrap the furs keeping his dead legs warm. He pulled Bran to standing, supporting most of his brother’s weight, and after some awkward fumbling deposited him on the bed. From there, Bran was able to reposition his legs with his hands and make himself comfortable on his own; clearly, gone were the days where he struggled with simple movements like sitting up. As much as it hurt to think about what Bran had suffered, Jon couldn’t deny the pride he felt at seeing his brother fight his personal battles.

A white streak flashed past Jon, settling across Bran’s legs in a fluid motion. Apparently Ghost had decided that he’d as much right to be on the bed as any of the humans; that left Jon to squeeze into what little space was left on the bed, next to Arya. If the way she curled up against him like he was her personal pillow was any indication, she’d forgiven him to manhandling her earlier; it was how she’d always preferred to sit whenever they all shared a bed, usually to better hear one of Old Nan’s stories.

“How did you get up the staircase?” Sansa asked suddenly, something which Jon had also been wondering.

“We should probably look into making alterations so that isn’t a problem,” he mused, thinking of the rope-and-pulley lift used at the Wall. He remembered being told that Tyrion had found designs for a saddle that could allow Bran to ride; perhaps the man could dig up some other schematics that would help them solve this new issue.

“Tormund carried him,” Arya replied to Sansa’s question, the sound muffled from how her cheek was squished against Jon’s shoulder. 

“That’s how we even knew you’d come this way. He’s worried about you, Jon. Said you didn’t seem to be having any fun.”

“Oh. I suppose,” he mumbled. “I just haven’t felt much for celebration, lately. He was trying awfully hard to cheer me up.” Immediately, Jon felt guilty for leaving Tormund so suddenly, along with a wave of affection for his friend.

“That might be my fault, I’m afraid,” Sansa said sheepishly. “I’d mentioned to him that you’d seemed withdrawn, and that you could benefit from some enjoyment.”

Jon snorted at that, finally having an answer for Tormund’s behavior. “That explains why he’s been so insistent on getting me drunk. You know he’s terrified of you, right?”

“What?” she gaped at him, while Bran and Arya nodded sagely as if they’d known this all along. Even Ghost seemed to blink his eyes knowingly at her.

“He thinks you can turn into a wolf.”

“Wh- that’s ridiculous!” Sansa protested.

“More so than anything else that’s happened lately?” Arya said with a smirk.

Sansa huffed. “Alright, fair enough. I’ll just have to explain to him that he has nothing to fear from me.”

“You… might make it worse,” Jon cautioned. “He’s a rather superstitious man.”

“I can’t just have him go around thinking I can turn into a wolf!” she argued.

“It’s hardly the worst rumor someone could spread about you,” Bran offered. “I’d say you just go with it.”

“That your advice as the Three-Eyed Raven, or as Bran Stark?” Arya asked.

“I’m an enigma like that,” Bran said; the mirth in his eyes betrayed his monotonous voice. 

Sansa didn’t let her protests end there, which prompted Arya to laugh and tease; Bran pretended to be neutral, but was clearly enjoying watching the drama, occasionally giving it enough fuel to stay interesting. Ghost huffed, clearly too dignified for their antics. Despite their supposed arguing, both girls couldn’t suppress their giggles at the other. Through all this noise Theon didn’t stir, but now there was the hint of a grin on his previously lax lips.

Looking around at them all, Jon felt a smile grow to stretch across his face. His siblings… cousins… whatever they were; this was his family right here, even- grudgingly- Theon. There might have been a celebration going on in the great hall, even with the woman he’d chosen to follow, but Jon decided that this was exactly where he wanted to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Hey Brother” by Avicii.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [gingersprites](gingersprites.tumblr.com), hit me up there for more of my bullshit.


End file.
